A Rose By Any Other Word
by ko-writes
Summary: Sometimes, a change of name is in order... TW: Child abuse, major character injury.
1. Chapter 1

Glasses and crockery smash around him and the fragments appear to almost explode against the wall. He ducks and dives as always, thinking that this is somewhat like the lord shooting at the peasant's feet to make them 'dance'.

Father is yelling, mummy's screaming; he's lost track of the intended recipients of their attacks. William huddles in the corner, hugging Redbeard's old rabbit toy close to his chest. William's dressed in black, is in mourning; he should say he doesn't have to do such a thing.

William whimpers, high and piercing, and he turns his face to look. A fatal mistake in the air of battle.

He catches the end of an insult, just his abbreviated name, "- Mike!" It's full of malice and ugliness and hatred, he thinks of changing his name when he's older. He never liked Michael anyway.

A glass hits his cheek and splinters like shrapnel, catching in the wound and the taste of salt and copper gradually flowing into his mouth. Slowly. Gently. It's laughable.

After a glass or plate hits, one free punch. It's a game they play and a schedule he follows.

His father hit his mark, so a meaty fist hits him. He falls to the floor.

Who is 'him'? Can Michael be removed? Not substituted, it wouldn't do to bring some poor innocent into this hell.

Blood is in his mouth, glass in his cheek and eye, and now the world doesn't quite match what it was and there is black in his vision.

"_Shut him up_!" his father yelled, glaring at William. He sees his chance.

He pushes himself to his feet, sprinting out of the room. Mummy snatches at his collar, but he gets away.

He dashes up the stairs, almost tripping and falling over his feet.

He launches into his room and locks the door. Breathe. He lets himself breath. He won't let himself hear the screams downstairs.

He grabs the rucksack he keeps under his bed, the one stuffed with his most needed personal effects, and shrugs it on.

There's a banging at the door.

He pushes open the window, just enough of a gap to shimmy through.

Tick tock, goes the clock.

Run, run as fast as you can.

He climbs out onto the blue, peeling drainpipe. If he fell now, he'd be seriously hurt at best.

His practise has paid off.

He plants his feet firmly on the ground and runs, not looking back.

* * *

He walks. He knows where he's walking.

Walking leads to thinking.

What name does he want if he no longer goes by Michael?

It a triviality, but it's also a distraction he relishes.

Nothing too different from the original, he supposes, but doesn't know why. He could go for... something unusual. Milo? Oh good god, no. He may as well throw syllables together to get a result if that was all his mind would give him at this moment shrouded in a cloak of pain. May as well go for something like Mycroft, haha! Wait... He actually quite liked that...

Greg's house appeared on the horizon and he _ran_. Greg was safety, Greg was love, Greg was _affection_. He knew that personification was a meaningless fancy of fiction writers - but at times it felt rather accurate.

He hopped onto the door step and rang the bell, distantly dismayed at the fact it took him three attempts to correctly locate it without misjudging.

And then there was Greg. _His_ Greg. He heard a sharp intake of breath as his boyfriend looked at the damage his father had called.

"Michael?" Greg breathed, knowing how he hated 'Mike'. He hates Michael now.

"Not Michael anymore," he grunts, the pain in his cheek being more than he thought.

"Let's get you to A and E, you're face..." The rest goes unsaid.

Greg bundles him into Mrs Lestrade's car, leaving a hastily scrawled note.

They drive in silence. It's not awkward at all, but not the same level of pleasant as usual.

"I hope they arrest him," Greg risks glancing at him for a split second.

"I hope so too," He agrees, "I had to leave William behind... I don't know what they're doing..."

The movement of talking disturbs his wounds and more blood pours.

After a babbled rant, and a minute pause, he finally admits, "I can't see out of my left eye..."

And they pull up to the hospital. All Mycroft wants to do now is go back for William; but Lestrade keeps him close.

When the nurse asks his name, he replies, "Mycroft."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Text

A ticking clock can be quite the annoyance, Mycroft muses as he lies in the guest bed of his boyfriend's house.

He wasn't.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Time meanders slowly under watchful, impatient eyes and ears.

Two minutes.

Then five more.

Seven minutes. Seven minutes before he would see his "parents" for the first time as Mycroft, not Michael.

Greg's going to come with him, they'll get the rest of his stuff and then get William and _his_ stuff... A lot to do and there were still crockery and glasses in the house.

The doctors theorise his left eye will scar, that he'll still be blind in it; which is a shame, he thinks distantly, but doesn't dwell on it.

He wonders if William's safe.

"Ready to go?" Greg asks, and he sighs.

"As I'll ever be."

* * *

The drive is spent in silence; Mycroft worried for the scene he'd find, Greg tense about meeting the monsters that terrified his boyfriend.

As the car glides to a stop, Mycroft lets out a shuddering breath. Grey takes his hand and squeezes it, "I'll be right there, don't worry."

"I'm not worrying for myself..." Mycroft sighs, resting his head in his hand.

"He'll be fine, babe," Greg tries to assure.

"I hope so," Mycroft murmurs as he opens the car door. He lets his foot linger, lone on the tarmac drive, for a moment. Breathe.

Just breathe.

Mycroft pushes himself to his feet and closes the door while Greg does the same and grabs some collapsed boxes from the back seat.

They knock on the door and wait.

Wait.

Tick tock.

Run, run, as fast as you can.

His mother opens the door.

"Oh, Michael!" She gushes, going to cup his face, but he staggers back.

"It's not Michael anymore," he informs, but moves on quickly, "I've come for my things and William."

He pushes past her defiantly, but there is still room to run. And, if all else fails, six-feet of muscular, rugby player boyfriend.

"What are you talking about?" She asks, seemingly sweetly but with an edge akin to Sweeney Todd's razor. He ignores her.

"William?!" He calls out.

There's a banging at the door. But what door?

"Michael -" His mother begins, ignoring the fact it's not his name anymore, "If this is about that accident last night -"

"It wasn't an accident," He mutters, eyes dark.

"It was Michael..." His mother 'soothes'.

"Leave me alone, you bitch!" He screams.

She glares at him, seething in silent, then pulls back her clenched fist.

He braces himself, turning his head to the left to avoid bursting the stitches.

A tall, at least compared to him, muscular body presses itself against his as a human shield.

Greg.

"We're getting the rest of his things, William, and then leaving," Greg told her sternly, "This won't happen to him ever again."

There was a tapping at that door.

Morse code!

Cellar.

"William's in the cellar!" Mycroft yelled, sprinting towards the door.

But the heavy frame of his father stood in his way.

"He's not there, Michael," His father states, menacing smile etched into his features, "Go to your room, read your books like you always do -" Ah, how he longed for the escapism of H. P. Lovecraft or J. R. R. Tolkien at this moment "- Everything's fine."

"No, it's not," Mycroft growls, baring his teeth like some kind of animal, "You threw glasses and crockery at me! You hit me! I'm blind in one eye, thanks to you! And now you've locked William in the cellar! I'm taking him!"

"Listen here, you little bastard -" his father yells and lunges at him.

Mycroft lashes out.

He hits his mark.

His father lies on the floor, unconscious and nose bloody.

He leans himself flush against the cellar door. "William?"

"Michael?" William whimpered.

"Not Michael anymore," Mycroft informed, "Stand back."

He gave William a moment to scramble back before kicking at the lock, wood splintering slightly but the door unmoving. He kicked it again, and again until, finally, it gave way.

William ran out, gasping for air.

"It's alright, William..." Mycroft assures, wrapping the seven year old in a warm embrace, "We're getting your things and leaving."


	3. Chapter 3

He and Sherlock are adults now, he reflects. What a strange thought.

William is gone, replaced with Sherlock. William found happiness in simple things, whereas Sherlock does not; but, overall, the latter is more content.

Greg is a detective inspector now. And, more personally, the man he's going to spend the rest of his life with. How does he know? Well, gold rings can be more than just jewellery.

Things have changed, for all of them, since the days spent in the Holmes household. Some remain the same, he and Sherlock are still afraid of the dark, but things are so much better; he's so... happy.

Happy in his little house by the sea, on holiday with Greg and his _family_. Greg and he in the master bedroom, their _child_ \- it's still unusual to think of himself as a dad - their Elizabeth asleep already in the second bedroom, John and Sherlock staying in the guest bedroom for a few days but at this moment out. He leans on the metal railing along the pier, letting the sea air cool his face and ruffle his hair.

It's hard to remember Michael, shimmying down the drainpipe; and Sherlock finds it hard to remember William, scratching at the cellar door. Those memories are always so clear, but so veiled and distant.

Mycroft doesn't mind that. He long ago accepted it as fact, as part of him, and moved on.

Mental scars heal in different ways, he muses; his is just a thin whit line now, and he's truly thankful.

He's still blind in his left eye, and the scar on his cheek is rather visible; but his _real_ family cares. Elizabeth, his little princess, even calls him a handsome king...

_ "Daddy, you are a handsome king so you need a crown!"_

_ "I'm far from handsome, Lizzy..."_

_ "Why?" _

_ "My eye's clouded and my cheek -"_

_ "You defeated a dragon, daddy! They make you who you are!"_

Sometimes he wonders how he has such a beautiful baby girl, but Greg's her dad as well.

Strong arms encompass him in their warmth.

Greg.

Thing's have changed there too. Greg's a bit more grey (well, he is too; but that's a secret between him, Gregory and the bottle of hair dye) and he's the tall one now.

"What are you up to?" Greg murmurs into his neck.

"Just... thinking..." He replies cryptically.

Greg just rolls his eyes, there is no convincing Mycroft Lestrade to not be dramatic. "Come inside, love," Greg plants a gentle kiss to his husband's neck, "It's cold; and Liz has just woke up, wanting to hear the story about Prince Michael and Prince William again."

"Is it stupid to tell a child such things, even if you wrap them in sugar and fantasy?" He asks, looking down at the stormy ocean.

"It just means, when she's old enough to understand, she knows more about you. She already knows you're Michael, she may work out William is Sherlock soon..."

"I'm sure she knows," Mycroft smiles, his little girl is so smart, "Let's go in."

And, with arms wrapped around each other, they do.


End file.
